Smart
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "There's no pause, no moment for Koutarou to catch his breath; just Akaba's footsteps, and the pound of his own heart, and then Akaba steps out into the hallway and sees him standing there." Akaba convinces Koutarou to change his perspective on what's important.


Koutarou can't make himself move.

He should. He can hear Akaba approaching, can hear the steady tread of the other's steps against the office floor; his own appointment is unimportant, far less critical even to himself than the conversation he's just overheard on the other side of the doorway. But the hallway is too long for him to make it around the corner and out of sight even if he moves right now, and he's forgotten how to shift his feet, forgotten how to act, forgotten how to do anything except stand frozen in place just alongside the doorway to the office as he listens to Akaba's footfalls bringing the other closer. There's no pause, no moment for Koutarou to catch his breath; just Akaba's footsteps, and the pound of his own heart, and then Akaba steps into the hallway and sees him standing there.

He goes still immediately. Koutarou can see the other's motion still in his periphery, can see the hesitation that freezes Akaba where he is just past the entrance to the administrative office. He should turn his head, should meet the dark of the gaze he can feel against his features; but he can't make himself move, and he can't trust his expression, so he doesn't, just keeps staring at the far wall of the hallway as he swallows against the knot of tension in his throat to grant himself the space for speech.

"That wasn't smart," he says, finally, hearing the words wobble in his throat like the breaking wave of tears in his chest is making a bid for freedom.

Akaba doesn't move from the doorway. "Koutarou." His voice is soft, low enough that the sound won't make it to the administrators on the other side of the wall currently supporting Koutarou's shoulders to keep him upright; Koutarou has never heard Akaba's voice sound so gentle before.

"That wasn't smart," Koutarou says again, clinging to the words like a talisman, like they'll grant him the stability to push past the emotion pressing against his chest and tensing in his throat. "You won't be able to play for a year here, you won't be able to do anything while you're waiting."

Akaba doesn't so much as hesitate. "That's alright."

"It's not alright," Koutarou says to the wall in front of him. He can still see Akaba watching him, can feel the focus of the other's gaze on him like a spotlight, and he's breaking down, he has stage fright for the first time in his life and his words are choking him, sticking in his throat until he can't cough them free. "You were leaving, you already transferred, you." There's a knot at the back of his tongue, a weight too heavy to force free; Koutarou presses his lips together and clenches his teeth against the burn in his chest, but it doesn't help. When he blinks the tears catch at his lashes and spill free of the corners of his eyes to slide into telltale damp across his cheeks.

"You're." Koutarou ducks his head and lifts a hand to drag the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes. The fabric is rough against his skin and pulls unpleasantly across his face, but he doesn't flinch back from it; he's too busy trying to catch a breath into the ache of his chest as subtly as possible. "That was." The tears aren't stopping; they're rising instead, falling from his eyes like rain and surging against the inside of his chest like a breaking wave, like the tide of his own emotion is cresting over him to drown his breath and pull him out to some unknown sea. "That was _stupid_ , Akaba."

Koutarou's heart is pounding in his chest, his hiccuping inhales ringing in his ears along with the odd high-pressure weight of the tears lodged in his head. He's not looking up anymore; he has his face hidden by his sleeve, is blocking the worst of his gritted-teeth sobs with the cover of his arm since his sleeve proved useless against the tears. But he can still hear the inhale Akaba takes, can hear the steadiness of it like the _tick_ of a metronome, like a reassurance of the continuing pattern and sanity of the world.

"I know," Akaba says, and his voice is as steady as his breathing, as calm and level as if he didn't just throw away a year of his football career for a dream, for the kick team, for Koutarou. Koutarou can hear the sound of his footsteps as Akaba moves out of the doorway, as Akaba steps in closer to stand in front instead of alongside him. Koutarou doesn't lift his head, doesn't raise his eyes again; but he can still hear Akaba's breathing, can feel the stable rhythm of it like comfort in his chest, like the other's inhales are urging his own out of the frantic rush of emotion that has so gripped him and into the calm they should be. "It wasn't smart."

Koutarou takes a breath, feels it swell and expand against the inside of his chest like it's unfolding into him, like it's forcing the tension across his shoulders to ease and relax. His eyes are still wet, his throat still aching on emotion; but he can take a breath, now, and when he drops his arm and lifts his chin Akaba is looking at him, the dark of his eyes fixed on the other's face without a trace of judgment that Koutarou can see.

Akaba lets his inhale go. "Smart isn't everything."

Koutarou's breath catches. It's not the words on Akaba's lips; it's the look in his eyes, the steady focus of his gaze as if Koutarou's the only thing worth looking at, as if he's the center of all things and the rest of the world is orbiting around him. His chest aches, his eyes burn; but Akaba's still looking at him, still standing in the middle of the hallway with the clear of his attention brighter than any audience Koutarou's ever stood before. Koutarou manages an inhale, blinks hard to clear his vision, and Akaba is still just watching him, standing in front of him with his whole body relaxed, without any trace of regret in his expression no matter how Koutarou looks for it.

Koutarou doesn't think about his motion. He just moves, stepping forward and into the space of the hallway like Akaba's gaze is pulling him forward, like his motions are practiced the way he practices the angle of his kicks on the field. Akaba's lashes flicker, his gaze skips down by a handful of inches, but Koutarou doesn't hesitate; he keeps coming, stepping in closer to the other, stepping in so close their jackets catch and the toes of their shoes bump against each other. Akaba takes a breath, the rush of his inhale warm against Koutarou's skin; and Koutarou reaches out, and fits his fingers against the back of the other's neck, and presses his mouth to the soft give of Akaba's half-parted lips. Akaba doesn't say anythin and, doesn't pull back to retreat from the contact; he just sighs an exhale, and shuts his eyes, and when his hand comes up against Koutarou's hair Koutarou lets the other's touch ease him into comfort, lets the pull of Akaba's fingers tip his head to the side to allow a better fit to the curve of their lips against each other.

It's a risk to linger so long against each other in the open space of the hallway, with the light from the open doorway to the administrative office clear just beside them. The smart thing to do would be to wait until later, to draw back and resume this later in the afternoon, or tomorrow, or next week, when they are in private, when Koutarou's lashes aren't tear-damp and his heart isn't pounding on the rush of adrenaline in his chest. But Akaba's lips are warm against his, and when Akaba opens his mouth to touch his tongue against the outline of Koutarou's lips Koutarou's throat tightens on an unheard whimper, and when he shifts it's to press himself closer instead of to pull away.

For once, he has to agree with Akaba.


End file.
